


Pika Pika

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types, POKÉMON Detective Pikachu (2019), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: ...why did I write this again?, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthropomorphized Ludicolo, Big Brother Dick, Gen, Gotta go on a Pokemon journey to find Bruce I guess, Grief/Mourning, I haven't even seen the Detective Pikachu movie yet so expect a ton of references to the trailers, No Spoilers, One Shot, Tim is awkward and trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 17:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18899347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: “There’s magic that brought us together, and that magic is called hope.”“He went missing,” Tim phrases carefully, body leaned closer to his companion to keep the words secret, “about two months ago now. Something’s felt...off about it, though. Everyone thinks he’s dead. There was even a funeral and everything. It’s just...”“...You don’t think he’s dead.”Tim shakes his head, determination growing. “No. No, I don’t.”





	Pika Pika

**Author's Note:**

> I've been chipping away at this for months, and after having watched the Detective Pikachu trailers more times than I can count, it's finally done. This one chapter is all there is, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Metropolis.

It's not where Tim wanted to spend his afternoon—not by a long shot, but that's where he was, sitting in an overly-comfortable chair while trying to decrypt the modern art hanging from the walls. Anything to avoid facing where he was.

“It's fine if you don't want to talk,” the kind-faced woman said. She had the same disposition Dr. Thompkins has, like she's been through hell and back enough times to be unfazeable. Tim spent the whole fifty minutes wondering what kind of life led her here, treating superheroes or vigilantes or whatever it is he and Bruce do.

Used to do.

Tim and Dick left the office a few hours ago now. The car ride back to Gotham has passed by as silent as death, and as much as Dick’s made a few noble attempts at conversation from the driver’s side, they've all fallen flat. After a period of insufferable silence, Tim just clicks on the radio and tries to fall asleep for the last half of the drive. He’d rather forget the past two months ever happened at all.

Some time after the sun’s long set, Dick flicks back off the late-night radio, meaning he’s going to take another shot at starting a conversation. Tim would rather he didn’t, but when the man calls out a soft, “hey,” Tim opens his eyes to catch the glow of headlights brightening his brother's face through the windshield; his expression is both encouraging and concerned. “Just…sleep on what the therapist said, will you? And give me a call if you need anything. I’ll be in town for the weekend, so don’t hesitate to drop me a line.”

Tim nods meekly in response, gaze returned to the curb as they pull over in front of his place. “Yeah, sure.” 

Dick doesn’t look like he’s entirely bought the agreement, but he doesn't push it. Instead, he tosses out one last line as Tim works his way out of the car. “I love you, kiddo.”

There's so much hope in his eyes that Tim can't bear to meet them. “Yeah,” the teen murmurs to cement. “Yeah, I love you too.” 

The words have always been easy when it comes to Dick, even when he's pulling away from the roadside. But this time, things feel markedly different to Tim, the words tasting like a personal defeat, like letting go of something he’s held on to for so long. It's a way of life now, he finds: He’s been wrong for months now. About death. About Bruce. That's just the way it is.

Tim closes his apartment door slowly, imagining he’s closing out all his thoughts with the gesture, every bad one, false one—even the good ones. He’s so focused in the movement that he doesn’t notice the street lamp flickering across the street...

* * *

The living room is as pitiful as Tim left it: Mountains of police files, news reports, and VHS-recorded street footage litter every horizontal surface sans the floor. They're a summation of every case Bruce worked over the past ten years. All of them up until two months ago, because that's where the cases end. 

Tim swipes a newspaper clipping off the coffee table and pushes aside enough paperwork to flop onto the couch. He's had enough of sitting down for one day—for a lifetime, really, but the sofa cushions are so broken into they mold like foam, and Tim dozes off in the feel. The whole apartment's filled with similar relics from Bruce's college days, musty a bit, like Alfred wouldn't walk within ten feet of the place without Febreeze and a blowtorch, but it's as nice as safehouses go. To be honest, it's comforting to think that this is how Bruce would decorate if he didn't have ten billion dollars to live up to. Maybe he and Tim can talk Alfred into letting them do a sitting room like this, in a few months when Bruce is…

The obituary glares up at him.

...back.

_ I should just give it up _ , Tim admits as he pries his eyes off the paper in his hands.  _ Dick’s right: Bruce really is gone.  _

The pages crumple pathetically under his fingers, nicking the rim of a garbage can a few moments later and spiraling in. Tim makes to get up and see what food's still in the cabinets (Probably something canned and long-expired.) before heading to bed, but that’s when he hears something bump against a table leg. A sheaf of papers slip off the desk as proof, and that’s all Tim needs to switch on to high alert.

In hindsight, it’s not the best weapon. But the stapler gun’s already in his hands and aimed at something behind a filing cabinet, so it’s a little too late to switch arms. “Is someone there?” 

There’s a bit more fiddling, maybe something scratching at the back of its head. 

“Whoever you are,” Tim promises with a threatening click of the stapler, “I know how to use this.”

A few more seconds pass, silent and unrevealing, but Tim’s more stubborn than he looks. 

In the end, an “Aw, jeez. Here we go,” is all Tim gets before two paws find their way to the top of the filing cabinet. It's the instant Tim can pinpoint his life taking a nosedive. 

“I know you can’t understand me,” the... _ something’s _ enunciating from on top of the cabinet, thirteen pounds of tartrazine fluff with red around its cheeks like a makeup job gone wrong, “but put down the stapler, or  _ I _ will electrocute _ you _ .”

Tim doesn’t mean to obey: The stapler hits the floor of its own accord. “Did you just...talk?” he works out, because he’s trying to tell himself the fact this thing being here at all is normal. The talking bit is definitely weird, but everything else—Yeah, that’s fine. 

“Woah,” the creature’s saying in front of him, amazed. “Did you just understand me?”

“Stop!” Tim tries to say over the clear epiphany his new acquaintance is having (“Oh my gosh! You can understand me! I’ve been  _ so  _ lonely!”) as the teen fumbles with his cell to dial up Dick’s number. There are about fifty other numbers before Dick’s in his contact register (Alfred, Arianna, Bart, Bruce, Cass, Cass...Too many Casses.).

“Stop talking!” Tim barks as he continues scrolling in full-blown panic.  _ Dick was right. Dick was right. Bruce is dead, and I’m insane.  _ “You're a hallucination.” 

“ _You’re_ a hallucination,” comes the huffed reply, stubby arms folded as the creature continues observing the teen. Dick’s number finally appears, and Tim clicks it at lightning speed. “Look,” the animal rationalizes calmly between the phone dialing. “I didn’t come here to partake in an existential crisis. I’m just looking for Detective Hawke. That's it.”*

Tim stops. He processes Dick picking up on the fourth ring, hears the casual “hey” shift to a more concerned “hello?” but the teen's too shocked to respond.

Detective Hawke. 

Tim knows that alias. It was the last one Bruce used two months ago.

“Tim?” Dick repeats, the alarmed tone jolting him back. 

“Butt dial, sorry. Can't talk now. Bye.”

The teen's pretty sure Dick tried to squeeze in a reply before he hung up the phone, but the device has already been tossed onto the couch, long forgotten. “How do you know that name?”

The figure offers a fluffy shrug before removing a deerstalker hat Tim has only just noticed. “It's right in here. See? If lost, return to Detective Hawke, 1722 Green Street, Gotham City.” Red cheeks dimple with a smile, the character clearly pleased with itself as Tim bores holes into the address with his eyes.

“Where did you get this?”

“Don't remember.”

“What do you mean you don't remem—”

A knock on the door shudders through the space, freezing both figures like shadows caught in a camera flash. 

“Tim?” Another knock. “Tim, can I come in?”

About fifty questions pop into Tim’s head, the first of which being how Dick got back here so fast and the second being how he’s going to hide the stark-yellow fuzzball that’s parked on his filing cabinet. “Is that Detective Hawke?” the animal asks curiously, already wandering toward the door before Tim scoops it up with scarily fast reflexes and darts in the opposite direction.

“Tim? Is someone with you?”

“TV,” comes the hollered explanation as the teen dumps his sentient luggage on the window sill and starts yanking up the slat blinds. “Almost at a commercial break! Just one minute.”

Tim turns back to his notably fuzzy audience, barely whispering now. “There's a food market two blocks from here. Lots of people. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

“And then we can talk about Detective Hawke, right?” the creature asks unhurriedly as it waddles through the window Tim's pulled open.

“Yeah. Now go, go.” The teen slams the window shut and takes a moment to muss up his hair in a desperate attempt at bedhead. He whirls around just in time to rip open the front door, pantomiming normalcy as he leans against the door jamb. “Hey,” Tim forces through tight lungs. “What’s up?”

Dick takes a second to look the younger man over, dubiety obvious. He holds up a bag of what looks to be takeout. “I was actually on my way back over here when you called,” he excuses, already snaking through the entryway and craning his neck for anything unfamiliar. “I know you probably want some space, but I really don't like the idea of you being alone right now. Call me clingy, but it just can't be good for you.”

Tim opens his mouth to offer a half-hearted rebuttal, but his eyes settle on the window—the only one that doesn't have the blinds down. It looks painfully obvious right now. “Thanks for the concern,” the teen covers, inching over to block the window from view. “Actually, I was just about to pass out on the couch. Feeling kinda tired.”

One of Dick's eyebrows shoot up in an Oscar-worthy imitation of Alfred's. “Really? It sounded like you were pretty into whatever show you were watching a minute ago.” A glance is cast over to the box TV then. It’s not even plugged into the wall, a fact that makes Tim wince.

To his surprise, Dick doesn't seem too fazed by the lie. A forlorn smirk has worked its way onto his face, and he sets the takeout bag on the only free spot on the coffee table—the place where the stack of papers had jumped ship earlier. The man sets to straightening the detritus, looking more tired with each of Bruce's old cases he picks up. “...I get it, you know. It really does feel like he'll just pop back into our lives any second now.”

The admission drives Tim to vet the floorboards like he was born to do it. 

“Bruce was so good at that,” Dick continues, voice caught in a sigh, “and...just… I wish he was alive too, Tim. I really do.”

“I know.”

Dick pauses when he's done collecting the reports, stares at them for a while before returning them to the table. “I know we've had this conversation so many times already. But it's only because I'm afraid of losing you, too. That's pretty selfish of me, I guess, but I don't think I could handle that: losing you and Bruce.”

Tim rubs at the back of his neck, feeling awkward for wanting to rush this conversation just to go pursue a lead Dick has been telling him doggedly doesn't exist. Who knows? Maybe Dick really is right: This could all just be some sleep-deprived hallucination or instinct turned sour. But if Bruce has taught Tim anything, it's to follow his gut—even if that means shutting out the very people he shouldn't.

“Thanks for coming, Dick. I know you've been busy. It means a lot.” 

Dick reads Tim’s face for a minute before pushing himself up to a stand. “Anytime,” he smiles, and Tim lets him ruffle his hair. “I'm really proud of you for letting me take you today. I know it feels strange, but sometimes we just need someone to help us sort our feelings out a bit.” 

Tim nods, a yawn coming on that's not forced but might as well be.

“I should let you get some shut eye, looks like,” Dick beams, snagging the takeout from the table. “I'll put this in the fridge for you so you’ll have something for breakfast. Pretty sure half the stuff in here expired back when  _ I  _ was Robin.”

Tim snorts out a guilty laugh at that, watches the light in the fridge turn off when the door swings back shut, and soon enough, he's alone in the apartment again. He spares a remorseful sigh, almost considers falling back onto the couch to get the sleep Dick and his new therapist have been telling him he needs. Instead, however, his keys appear in his hands despite himself, and two sneakers and one hoodie later, he's out on the Gotham streets.

It's not a bad night for a walk. The back alleys on this side of the Financial District are lined with neon signs in every shape and color, close enough to the docks that everything smells faintly of fish and salt. Tim's pretty sure the ocean would be audible if not for the din of people shuffling through food stands and woks tossing ingredients into the air above portable stoves.

“I thought you said ten minutes.”

“I got hung up,” Tim mutters down to the fluffball now strolling beside his leg. No passerby seem to notice the bipedal mouse-dog-thing, but then again, this is the same universe in which no one questions how Clark Kent is a Superman doppelganger; Tim takes it in stride. “So, how do you know Detective Hawke?”

“Uh, I don't.”

Tim tries not to be petulant when he asks, “Then where'd you get his hat?” It comes off that way anyway.

“I already told you: I don't remember.”

Tim sidesteps a couple with a polite nod, careful to keep his voice low. “Fine. What’s happened since you lost your memory, then? First thing you can remember?”

The animal looks particularly excited to retell the tale. To Tim’s horror, it jumps up to the counter of someone who’s harmlessly trying to peddle some stir fry, strolling across the vendor spaces without a care in the world. Again, no one but Tim seems to notice. “Well, I remember there being a lot of green.”

“Green?” Tim repeats incredulously, still scanning unaware passerby. 

“Yep. Green. And then it all kinda drained away real fast, and I remember a lot of bright lights. Sterile, like a lab maybe. After that, I remember…” The creature strains its face in thought. “I guess not much else. Just remember opening my eyes and seeing a bunch of trees. A bridge too, and there I was. Woke up with a heavy case of amnesia in the middle of nowhere, the only clue to my past Detective Hawke’s name and address inside that hat.”

“Could’ve been in Otisburg,” Tim thinks aloud. “The Trigate Bridge is over that way.”  _ Ace Chemicals too,  _ he ponders seriously, mind hitched on the idea of something green and liquid. “You got pretty far without knowing who you are,” he switches topics. “How’d you manage to find Detective Hawke’s apartment in the first place?”

The creature tips its hat out of its eyes, pupils gleaming with pride. “It wasn’t easy, let me tell you that. I couldn’t talk with anyone. I mean, they try to talk to me all the time. All they hear is ‘pika pika.’ Really made it difficult. But then I wandered down here and saw Green Street. I made my way to the apartment from there, and that’s where I found you—and your stapler gun.”

“So...you’re telling me I’m the only one who can understand you?”

“Yep,” a pudgy face beams. “That’s what it looks like.” 

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. A corner of his mind keeps whispering that that’s what a hallucination would say, that he’s really lost it and should be calling Dick. He scurries to stifle the thought.

“So, where are we headed?” a voice pipes up beside him, Tim’s fuzzy acquaintance hopping back to the pavement as they exit the market.

“Somewhere more low profile. There’s a 24-hour cafe past this string of taverns. It’s usually pretty busy.” The creature accepts the info without question, waddling beside him until they reach a sidestreet cast in neon and mercury lights. One of the buildings promises its coffee is fresh, a jaded-looking owl staring out beneath the sign as if daring people to imply otherwise.

“This is our stop,” Tim indicates before slipping into the entrance.

Admittedly, the Hi-Hat Cafe’s not the nicest place in the world. It looks surprisingly bar-like, some smoggy substance clouding the top of the air like cigarette smoke, and whatever liquid they’re serving at the counter is questionable. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions provided you don’t.

In other words, it’s perfect.

Keeping his head dipped low, Tim weaves his way through the shoddy tables to the center bar where he slides onto a stool. He doesn’t see anyone that could prove troublesome, and no one seems to notice he’s even entered aside from the tired-looking bartender. The man seems to be making up for the exhaustion with an aggressively zig-zagged polo and an ambitious beard that Tim suspects houses at least three birds and a bottle of five-hour energy.

Again, the kind of place where you don’t ask questions.

“What’re ya havin’?” the man grunts.

“I’ll just—”

“Ooh!” Tim’s companion exclaims suddenly, making the teen jump. The animal appears to have been examining the menu from the neighboring stool and just found what it’s wanted. “I’ll have a round. Extra shot. Black as night. Thank you, sweetie.”

The creature pushes the menu forward with a smart smirk, waiting eagerly for Tim to translate.

“I’ll just take a water,” Tim sighs tiredly, running his hands over his face. 

“Don’t forget about my order!”

“Make that two waters.”

Tim catches the bartender tip an eyebrow as if to ask who the second water’s for, but the man must decide against it. Tim understands the confusion: Ordering for an animal that looks like it has two cherry lollipops stuck to its cheeks is a first for him too.

After another moment, the man’s wandered off to fetch the glasses, and Tim’s alone with his now-jilted companion. “We’re at a cafe. Least you can do is get coffee,” the animal grumbles with a pout.

“It's probably not good for you. Besides, that’s not what we’re here for,” Tim shushes. His eyes are still low and skittish, watching the crowd from over his shoulder. “Just tell me what you know about Detective Hawke. Do that, and I’ll tell you what I know, alright?”

Tim’s acquaintance shrugs with a huff. “Fine. But why do you care so much about this guy anyway? You buds or something?”

Tim flinches. “I…” he starts, snapping his mouth shut instantly. There are a lot of ways he could describe his and Bruce's relationship: mentor, partner, friend. None of them capture what he really wants to say, though. The most vulnerable answer comes out instead. “He’s my dad,” Tim mutters softly, and he leans his elbows on the counter protectively. “If he’s in trouble, I have to help him.”

A pair of eyes soften at that, the amber color lightening. “I don’t know,” the animal exhales. “I think maybe Hawke got in too deep. Mixed up with the wrong crowd—That kind of thing. He could’ve sent me as a message of some kind. A last ditch effort. It might explain why I can only talk to you.”

Tim bites the inside of his cheek in thought. “That would make sense. It certainly sounds like something he would do.”

“Alright then,” the animal nods decisively. “We’ve made some headway. Now it’s your turn: What do  _ you  _ know about Detective Hawke?”

The pair wait a quiet moment as the bartender returns and places the drinks on the counter. “He went missing,” Tim phrases carefully, body leaned closer to his companion to keep the words secret, “about two months ago now. Something’s felt...off about it, though. Everyone thinks he’s dead. There was even a funeral and everything. It’s just...”

“...You don’t think he’s dead.”

Tim shakes his head, determination growing. “No. No, I don’t.”

It feels amazing to admit it, like months of stress and doubt have just washed off his shoulders. He doesn’t have much to go off of, but for whatever reason, Tim knows it’s the truth, can feel his hair rise in anticipation. Even if it isn't true, if he's been wrong this entire time, Tim has to know for sure. The alternative is letting Bruce down, and Tim can’t do that. He won’t.

Tim glances over to his friend to send a resolute look. All he sees, though, is the creature downing the entire glass of water in one go. It has an effect of killing the moment.

“Well, then!” the animal exclaims happily once it slams the glass back down. Tim watches as it pulls itself up onto the counter—much to his chagrin—and begins to pace between the salt and pepper shakers. “That settles it: Detective Hawke is still alive. Case closed! ...But still open until I solve it!”

The affirmation is charming, especially coupled with the enthusiastic fist pump, but Tim is still trying to coax the animal off the counter and back onto the bar stool. It’s to no avail.

“Alright, here it is,” the creature keeps going, clearly on a roll as it dodges the napkin dispenser. “Hawke faked his own death. Or—” It quickly spins around, earning Tim a face full of tail. “ _ — _ Somebody else faked Hawke’s death. Or—” Tim’s lucky he’s trained enough to dodge the tail on its return. “—Hawke faked somebody else’s death…” The animal stops pacing long enough to look Tim head on before admitting, “That last one doesn’t work  _ at all.” _

__

“No,” Tim agrees, thoughtful. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s a start.” The teen pushes himself to a stand, putting down a few dollars of tip before making his way back out. His companion scurries after him.

__

“Where are you going?”

__

“Following a lead,” Tim explains over his shoulder, a pool of smoke pouring out as he finds himself back on the street. Tim doesn't even care; he gulps down a lungful of the stale Gotham air with a fire in his eyes. “I’m going to a chemical plant on the other side of town. I need for you to go back to the apartment until I come get you, alright?”

__

“No way,” the creature disagrees, hopping sideways beside Tim as he charges on. “We’re gonna do this, you and me. That’s the rule.”

__

“It’s too dangerous.”

__

“All the more reason for me to tag along as a partner.”

__

Tim slows to a stop. The word strikes him with a weird pang of nostalgia. “Partner…?" he repeats quietly, taking in the animal standing beside his ankle.

__

“Sure! You’re going to be needing my help: I’m a world-class detective, after all.”

__

Tim snorts weakly in humor but doesn’t complain when the fluffball clambers up onto his shoulder. "I thought you couldn’t remember anything.”

__

"I can’t," it admits openly, "but some things in the world just are. I can't explain it, but I just know, you know?”

__

Tim does know. He thinks back to Bruce, back to realizing he was Batman, back to now how Tim feels it in his very being that Bruce is still out there. He understands that feeling more than he can even say. 

__

“Yeah," the teen agrees quietly, eyes brought up to challenge the neon-lit horizon of buildings above them. The concrete feels alive beneath him, the faint ocean wind rising and pushing him forward. It all feels like the start of something new, a burst of hope in the darkness, and it’s in that exact mix that Tim operates best. They’ll find Bruce. Tim’s certain of it.

__

“Let’s get started.”

__

**Author's Note:**

> *Detective Hawke is an alias Bruce used in Nightwing (1996) #20


End file.
